


Beau Cul!

by Tish



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Down the Chimney Affair, Gen, Innuendo, M/M, outrageous assaults on innocent accents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21974407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/pseuds/Tish
Summary: All Illya wants is to be back home with Napoleon, but he has a mission and a pesky bit of room service to deal with first.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	Beau Cul!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AconitumNapellus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AconitumNapellus/gifts).



> Written for the Down the Chimney Affair 2019.
> 
> Prompts: Stars. Homelands. Napoleon has a terrible French accent.

The night sky was inky black as Illya looked up wistfully. Most of the stars were a glowing white, with some blue and red ones standing out amongst the jewels in the sky. The constellations were familiar, but tilted almost upside-down since he was south of the equator. Illya mentally traced a path north, seeing in his mind the constellations regain their familiar aspects. That path north also led to Napoleon, and he wished more than anything to navigate to his side. To be home, to be with him, wherever that was, for that was home.

However, Illya was stuck in a tropical paradise, his habitual white shirt barely buttoned up as he waited to complete his mission.

He heard voices and moved into cover a little more, watching as the man and woman approached. They spoke in French, the man with a Parisian accent, and the woman with the local accent. Illya watched the shore as he listened, wondering if these two were as innocent as their conversation appeared.

They weren't, Illya discovered, when the man suddenly pulled out a small package and instructed her to bury it. The man hurried away as the woman strolled onto the beach and dug a hole with her bare hands, underneath a spindly tree.

Illya watched the woman walk away, then crept over to the tree, quickly uncovering the package. He held a small scanning device over it, nodding in satisfaction as it registered a particular frequency.

Back under cover, Illya took out his communicator. “Open channel R, please.”

*|*

The mission was wrapped up swiftly and neatly, with the two French THRUSH agents picked up, along with the incoming pickup boat with the hapless mook who spent half an hour fruitlessly digging holes in the sand before Illya and the regional U.N.C.L.E. team took pity on him and nabbed him.

“Mr. Kuryakin,” Mr. Waverly informed him over the communicator, “I hope you aren't intending to take it too easy in paradise. You can get a start on the paperwork while you wait for transport to arrive. Good work, by the way.”

“Thank you, sir,” Illya replied. “I shall have the case notes settled in a few hours.”

“Good man. Mr. Solo has been on the communicator, pestering me to accompany the transport flight, but he has important tasks to complete. He should take a leaf from your book,” Mr. Waverly replied tetchily.

Illya smiled as he fanned himself with a large palm leaf. “Indeed, sir. Now, if you'll excuse me, I should go and complete my report. Kuryakin out.”

*|*

Work completed in time for sunrise, Illya retired to his hotel room. As he was dressing, fresh from his shower, Illya tensed at the sound of approaching footsteps in the hallway. Gun at the ready, he waited.

There was a knock on the door, accompanied by a comical French voice. “ _'Allo?_ Room service for monsieur.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “Napoleon!”

“ _Non_ , zis is room service,” Napoleon said, failing to hide his laughter behind the accent as Illya opened the door.

“In,” Illya said, jerking his thumb.

“ _Merci, beau cul_ ,” Napoleon said as he entered the room, his accent sliding around on a short Mediterranean tour.

“Napoleon, I hope you didn't unleash that accent around innocent people and cause an international incident. Also, you didn't bring anything that remotely resembles room service,” Illya said with a scowl, locking the door.

“I brought me,” Napoleon replied cheerily, kissing Illya.

“I'm ravenous,” Illya warned, kissing Napoleon back, his hands raking his body.

Napoleon steered them towards the bed. “Well then, you'd better make a meal of me.”

“You're a banquet,” Illya said between kisses as he pushed Napoleon onto his back, climbing on top of him and making quick work of unbuttoning his shirt.

“All you can eat buffet, my friend,” Napoleon said smoothly as he shrugged off the shirt.

Illya lifted his head from kissing Napoleon's chest, a smile on his face as he said, “I'm glad you're here, even if you're not supposed to be.”

“The plane was in Sydney, I was in Sydney, now we're all here. Waverly doesn't need to know,” Napoleon said innocently as he flipped Illya onto his back.

Illya let Napoleon push away his unbuttoned shirt and pulled down his briefs, letting out a contented sigh as Napoleon firmly grasped his cock. Heat welled up inside him as Napoleon stroked along the shaft, taking the tip into his mouth. Illya moaned softly as Napoleon's tongue ran around the head, while his fingers teased along the base and under his balls. He slowly arched his back, wanting to be taken deeper inside Napoleon's mouth, but still wanting that dance of the tongue-tip. His mouth was bone-dry, thirsting for water, for Napoleon.

“ _Ce bon?_ ” Napoleon said in a deep voice around Illya's shaft, prompting a deeper groan from Illya.

“That pronunciation was actually quite good,” Illya said, with a half-distracted laugh. “We've found the perfect way for you to practice.”

“A perfect way to be thrown out of a restaurant while ordering,” Napoleon said as he took Illya's cock from his mouth for a moment.

Illya groaned as he laughed, pulling Napoleon down by his shoulder. “Don't stop!”

Napoleon happily settled his mouth over Illya's straining cock, slowly licking up and down it, then sucking on the glistening tip. He squeezed Illya's balls, pressing his thumb underneath he base, smiling at Illya's gasp.

“ _Un, deux, tr-,_ ” Napoleon murmured as he plunged onto the spurt of come.

“Oh!” Illya cried out softly.

“ _Trois_ , not troh,” Napoleon corrected him, grinning from ear to ear.


End file.
